blue moon
by poisonrationalitie
Summary: Anthony can't summon once-in-a-lifetime events or ride a unicorn, but Michael needs his help, and he does love a challenge.


**A/N for the Southern Funfair, Paper Chains. Pairing: Anthony Goldstein & Michael Corner**

**Prompt: 23. [Setting] Hogsmeade**

**Wordcount: 2079**

Getting Michael Corner to smile was like getting a boy to ride a unicorn. The only person who had ever managed it semi-successfully was Ginny Weasley, who apparently had the ability to summon blue moons and once-in-a-lifetime events with a laugh. Given her recent resignation, it was now up to Anthony. The sun glowed golden over the shining Saturday mid-morning, and the Three Broomsticks was prepared for summer, temporarily turning itself into a sort of tropical retreat for the exam-ridden students of the nearby school.

"Yes, some more butterbeer, please. Thank you." Madam Rosmerta smiled at him and sauntered away with his coins. Over the radio came the sounds of saxophones and crashing waves. Coconut halves were suspended in the air, each containing a candle with a flame that flickered to the beat of the music. Anthony turned his attention to the dark-haired figure opposite. Michael sat in the other chair, chin in his hand, elbow on the table. His fringe had grown nearly long enough to cover his eyes. His free hand rested on an empty butterbeer bottle. "Are you okay?"

"Sure," Michael said, voice flat. Anthony sighed internally. He continued to smile.

"You downed that butterbeer pretty quickly," he commented. "It's pretty good, isn't it? I wonder if they changed the recipe."

"It's just ice," Michael replied, shifting his head slightly, towards the bottle. At least he could move. Anthony was sure that was a good sign. Sometimes Michael just ended up being practically paralysed by whatever was bothering him.

"I suppose we haven't really had iced butterbeers in a year or so, have we? But it's nearly summer. And what a summer. The muggles are having their big sports competition, the Olympics, you know, a bit like the Triwizard Tournament or the World Cup. It's being hosted in the United States, I imagine everyone at Ilvermorny would be very excited. Zayde was at Hogwarts when London last held the Olympics, and he says it was such an event, even the purebloods attended."

"Really," Michael said, staring at his drink. Anthony wanted to smack himself. Sport was probably the last thing his friend wanted to hear about. He jiggled his foot, thinking. Really, it was a miracle he'd gotten Michael to come to Hogsmeade at all. Even with their O. looming next week, he'd been refusing to go to class, instead laying under the covers in his bed as mountains of tissues rose around him.

"I was going to revise Charms with Terry tonight," Anthony said. "You should come. Even Ollie might drop by."

"I'm tired," Michael said immediately. "I shouldn't have come out today." Anthony spied Madam Rosmerta over his shoulder, and grinned, giving her a thumbs up. She smiled at them both, putting the butterbeer on the table with a flourish. Paper umbrellas covered the mouths of the bottles in the place of caps. Michael took his off and dropped it on the table.

"You boys enjoy yourselves," she winked, before heading to another table. Anthony's butterbeer was cool to touch, the drink flurried with ice. He stirred gently with the toothpick part of the little pink umbrellas. Michael cupped his new butterbeer between his palms, gazing desolately into the neck.

"It's a hard time of year," Anthony said. "Everyone's crapping themselves over their exams." Michael shrugged. At this point, Anthony couldn't be sure he even knew his exam timetable. It hadn't been anywhere near his bed, at least. OWLs had nothing to do with a certain Gryffindor player, so he was fairly sure they hadn't even crossed his mind. Michael grunted. Anthony took another sip of his butterbeer, pondering, and decided he had to take the chance. It wasn't as if Michael was in any real position to mock him, anyways - even if he had been feeling better, Michael wasn't the type to do that in the first place. He was no Zabini or Nott. "Do you want to talk about it?"

One of Michael's hands twitched. "About what?" he asked. Anthony counted that as a win. Now, the problem was finding a way to actually get to the topic without Michael storming off or crying. He took another sip, and wished he'd had the sense to bring along a Hufflepuff to help. Okay, yes, maybe it was a stereotype, and he of all people knew just how damaging stereotypes could be - but there was _truth _to it. Even Ernie could get someone to talk. But he wasn't here, and it was up to Anthony to think of something to say.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

"How useless I am," Michael said, surprisingly quickly. Anthony blinked. "That I'm an idiot. A crybaby. A sore loser. Pathetic."

"Did she say all those things?" he blurted out, mouth falling open, brows furrowed. It didn't match the blurry portrait he had of the youngest Weasley.

"She meant them," Michael said. _Ah. _Anthony was glad he hadn't scribbled on the portrait too quickly. "She called me depressing." Anthony arranged his features into a suitable look of shock and outrage. He wondered if Michael had ever heard that from anyone else. It couldn't be the first time, could it?

"Anyone would be sad about losing a match," Anthony said. "Even the Gryffindors get low about it. Don't you remember Wood?"

"Wood?"

"The big one. Gryffindor captain," Anthony said. "Shouted a lot." Michael frowned.

"Didn't he break Harry's arm for not catching the snitch quickly enough?"

"What?" Maybe Madam Rosmerta had slipped something extra in his drink.

"I don't know. That's what Sophie said." Not for the first time, he wondered exactly _how _Michael and Ginny had ended up dating. Michael was his dormmate and one of his closest friends; naturally, Anthony thought he was great. But he wasn't ignorant, and Michael and Ginny appeared to have little in common aside from a love of Quidditch. Then again, Anthony had never dated anyone. How was he supposed to know what worked?

"You've seemed pretty down," he tried. Michael grunted. He'd gotten a handful of sentences out of his friend, and now he was back to grunted communication. _Damn it, _he thought. Blubbery first and second years crying over exams were much easier to console. He could suggest tutoring, go through their test with them, accompany them to a meeting with their class professor, or Professor Flitwick. Wait, hang on, that gave him an idea. "I don't want to intrude, but - what actually happened? If you don't mind?"

Michael bristled, but spoke. "It was after that last match, and I met up with her afterwards, like I said I would. And I asked her, what did she think? Of my cheering, you know." Anthony remembered it vividly. Michael was the reserve seeker for the house team, though nobody was quite sure of how he got the position, or why, considering he'd stormed off halfway through the tryouts. The only logical conclusion was that it was Davies' tendency to favour older students who had done their dues, even if younger students had more potential. He had a bad gut feeling about Michael's position on the team next year, only worsened by his cheering. He tried, he really did.

"Yeah," Anthony nodded encouragingly.

"And she said, 'Gryffindor won.' And I told her, I know. And she said she was really happy about it, and that she thought Harry Potter was a brilliant seeker. And I told her about the cheers I was doing, and she said they'd be having a party back in the common room. And I asked her if Harry would be there, and she said he would."

"I see," Anthony said, motioning for him to continue. Michael hesitated. Anthony gently put a hand on his shoulder, the same way he would to one of the students who came to him for help. Michael didn't shrug it off, at least. "Hey. Everything's alright." Michael stared down at his butterbeer.

"I asked her, wouldn't she rather spend time with me? I was upset. We lost! And she said she wanted to celebrate with her house, and I said that I really needed someone to hang out with, and she walked off!"

"You can always hang out with us," Anthony reminded him.

"I wanted her. I ran after her, and told her she ought to stay with me because I'm her boyfriend, and I was upset, and I didn't want to be alone. And she said she wouldn't have to if I wasn't her boyfriend, and left me there!" His voice had steadily grown louder, and Anthony spied a pair of fourth years watching them. Michael tilted his head back and held his iced butterbeer completely vertically. Anthony watched, almost in awe, as the liquid disappeared. He only set it down once it was completely empty, and wiped his mouth. Suddenly, he whipped his head around. The two fourth year girls' goggled at him, turning red.

Michael was half-way out the door before Anthony stood, still holding his half-full butterbeer. He shot the younger girls a _look _on his way out, catching the door as it swung shut after Michael. The dark-haired boy stood in the street, hands on his head, chin tilted to the sky. Anthony held the door open for an elderly lady with frizzy hair and flowers around her neck, and then ventured out into the middle of the pathway. It was a hot day, especially for Hogsmeade, and golden sunlight turned the sleepy village into a place of excitement. Small children darted between crowds of teenagers desperately searching for a reprieve from their exams, and witches and wizards from all over Britain had swung by for a visit to the sole remaining all-wizarding village. Even in his attempt to walk a few feet, he narrowly missed stepping on a crup that was being chased by a trio of spritelike children and being knocked over by a second-year brandishing a new beaters' bat.

"The bat is to be used for Quidditch and Quidditch training only," he called out, but the boy was long gone.

Finally, he found himself next to Michael. His face was remarkably pale, but his eyes were red, and tears streamed down his cheeks. For a second, Anthony froze.

"Why does everyone treat me like shit?" Michael asked, still facing the sky. "I'm crying in the middle of the street and not one person's noticed, except for those two bloody nosy girls!" Anthony stood by his side, silent. In truth, he thought that Michael would have preferred that nobody asked him about it. But maybe, even if the attention was awkward and unpleasant, it was nice to know that at least somebody cared.

"People can be self-absorbed, I guess," Anthony said.

"She cared more about _fucking _Quidditch than she did me," Michael continued. "I was upset. What's wrong with that? Why am I not allowed to be upset? Because it's too fucking inconvenient for her? It's too hard?"

"They say she's a bit of a party girl," Anthony told him, and regretted it immediately. He hadn't personally witnessed anything that can be construed as evidence - and in every argument, you ought to have both primary and secondary sources, he knew. That was what made gossip gossip. Secondhand accounts.

"Am I inconvenient?" Michael asked, throwing his hands down. He was facing Anthony dead-on - or, the best he could, given the height difference between them.

"No," Anthony said lightly. And then, definitive: "no. Not at all. Not ever. You're my friend, Michael, one of my best friends, and you never inconvenience me, okay? If she thinks you're an inconvenience, she's got her priorities all wrong."

He could see Michael swallow. "I can't believe I'm crying in the middle of the street," he said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "God-_ric._"

"You're helping me," Anthony said, the words coming out before he could think.  
"Really?" Michael said dryly. "How?"

"You're - setting an example. It's okay for guys to be in touch with their feelings." Where _that _came from, he had no idea, but he believed it. Michael managed a half-smile, and wiped his tears on his sleeve.

"I really liked her," Michael said.

"I know." Then Anthony paused. "Past tense?"

"I'm not an inconvenience," Michael said firmly. "I'm not. And I'll make the team next year, and I'll prove it. I'm worth something. I am."

"I believe you," Anthony said. And then Michael finally, _actually _smiled, and the blue moon had come. Anthony knew his job was done.


End file.
